


Disparate times

by tetanus



Category: Half-Life, Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Not a game- au, Post-Canon, They're kind of mean, in a jazzy fun mikey myers kinda way, light stalking implication, y'know without the die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetanus/pseuds/tetanus
Summary: At some point you just have to get back to it, right?(Alt title: gordon freeman part-time job tropes speedrun, harassed by eldritch entity %, glitchless)
Relationships: (possibly later on), Benrey/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Disparate times

**Author's Note:**

> Incoherent, post it!

According to the dog eared calendar that hangs a little crookedly on the wall of his dimly lit kitchen, it had been three months, one week, and six days since _the incident_.

The earth shattering, legitimately incomprehensible week and/or other length of days that had fundamentally torn up each and every pillar of stability Dr. Gordon Freeman had counted upon in his comparatively little life. And the calendar’s monthly offerings of cute little cat pictures were doing absolutely nothing to help.

Time had passed strangely, fuzzy and nebulous in places. Jumped around a lot. Certainly towards the climax. A hectic flurry, that when looked back on - would come to make less and less sense.

Impossible geographies, impossible _geometries_. Death, rebirth. Powerade. Catharsis.

But, he’d been assured that he didn’t need to know. So he would try not to.

After all was said and done he’d simply been deposited, left alone to his apartment and his wilted house-plants. The only tangible reminder of that missing time chunk of time and all he’d seen.

Well, no, not the _only_ one. If he was to pull out his phone right now, with a little navigation, he’d reach a screen with three new text threads. One with unnecessarily wordy responses often spanning the length of the screen. One clipped and perfectly syntax-ed that somehow perpetually leaked irritation.While the other was dotted with images of the most photogenic golden retriever he’d ever laid eyes upon.

They’d actually met for dinner, all of four of them, four nights ago. Not at his apartment. But it had been a relatively normal affair, considering the participants. In an event that had at some point become routine, grounding in its normalcy. Thursdays nights are boys nights, so they decided.

Gordon smiles around the plastic lid of his still too hot coffee, the familiar passing scenery hardly leaving an impression.

And _then_ , also, there was the hush money. That was definitely tangible, revealing that the infrastructure of Black Mesa had limped on in some form, despite everything. The official statement has read along the lines of a tragic accident, some sort of failure in a sub system causing terrible structural damage and massive casualties.

Cutting as close to the truth as possible while avoiding incrimination was a favored approach, Bubby had remarked disdainfully at one point. A redirection, at the time, from Gordon’s inquiry as to how the fuck they were not rotting in some awful underground quasi-state prison. Indeed, the fact that they had not been bundled away into an unmarked van by plain clothes operatives was enough of an indicator that things had been going on behind the scenes in his favor, in their favor. Or at least, that's what he’d been able to glean from Tommy’s vague assurances regarding pulled strings.

Ah, but he was starting to get stuck up on the no-need-to-know again.

Shifting back in his obnoxiously patterned seat Gordon blinks back to awareness, a quick assessment tells him he’s less than five or so minutes out from his stop.

It had been a little hard to get references, past employment ending as it did, and if he’s honest he’s not sure hopping back into another morally grey science institution/facility is something he could actually take again, blistering scientific progress be damned.

Which is how Gordon had found himself here, wearing an unbranded black coverall, riding a sparsely populated bus through quiet streets to a low rise office building where, between the hours of 8.30pm to 3.30am, he would conduct... janitorial duties. Low stress, and blissfully quiet.

The bus rolls to a juddering halt and Gordon pulls himself up with a wince, the thin disposable coffee cup still overly hot in his gloved right hand. That was also tangible, he supposed.

The transition from bus stop to office entrance takes less than two minutes, he knows it well. Heading up through the back way, with the punching in of a code, meant there was no need for further interaction beyond a quiet nod of acknowledgement to the few late workers who’d spare him a glance. He moves up the blisteringly lit utility staircases with haste. The office corridors themselves were to be kept largely dark at this hour, the bare minimum illumination to toe the line of energy saving and some sort of health and safety violation - a mercy as far as he was concerned, to be spared their fluorescent blue white burn.

Upon reaching his floor, he dips into a supply cupboard to retrieve the janitorial cart, sets his coffee on it, and manoeuvres it out carefully to avoid the looming stack of yellow cleaning buckets. He then proceeds to back out the room, turn off his brain, and begin along his pre-mapped route. _Low_ stress, and _blissfully_ quiet.

Yeah, alright, perhaps this wasn’t where he’d seen himself in his days of studying at MIT. Daydreaming of the incredible good he’d be able to do, the great things he’d achieve. Where he’d go, what he’d be. Etc. The cart squeaks as he moves along the hall and with a hard exhale Gordon runs a hand through his hair as if the motion itself would shake the thoughts aside.

Instead, he’s ripped from his musings by an echoing clatter.

The distinct sound of multiple previously stacked yellow buckets hitting cheap rubber flooring and spinning out to gods know where is amplified through the quiet of the empty hall. A sound Gordon’s intimately familiar with on account of his own hubris.

He’s still for a moment, peering back down over his shoulder at the hallway he’d been progressing down. The door he’d definitely closed hangs slightly ajar, spilling a rebellious line of warm light into the grey hall.

Strange how the darkness always seemed to make things louder.

Gordon reaches for a fortifying sip of coffee, bites back a wince and sets it down (it’s still hot) then proceeds to retrace his squeaking steps back to his store room.

The sight which eventually greets him is unfortunately familiar: yes, a sea of yellow buckets, some having the audacity to still be slightly spinning in place. What’s less familiar is the figure of a person, sprawled out on their back amidst the pile, partially covered, as if they’d collapsed on top of them. Yet before any makings of (further) panic can bubble up Gordon’s chest, the figure grunts.

“... Sir?” Gordon pushes the door open a touch further to allow himself access, only to be stopped as the figure sharply sits bolt upright, mostly dislodging their covering in one swift movement.

 _Mostly_ , they seem to have a bucket jammed on their head.

This fact doesn't seem to startle them as much as it does Gordon, the guy jerkily raises their hands to touch at the shape, muttering some incomprehensibly bucket-smothered noises as they feel about the yellow plastic, far too casually, as far as Gordon's concerned.

“...Look, sir, hold on, let-” He starts, with a step.

The head swerves to look in Gordon’s general direction, twisting their entire torso in the movement. There’s a beat of silence through this half blind stare down. Only for a muffled crackly voice to creep out from under the bucket’s rim.

“... yooo i’m like... pyramid head... but shit.”

A sharp bark of laughter breaks from Gordon's mouth, shattering both the sleepy quiet of the building, and his poor attempt at solemn concern for his co-workers' plight. At the very least they seem to be just as amused as him, sitting cross legged now with both hands patting at the rim of their bucket head.

Nudging forwards past the discarded pails Gordon settles himself down into a crouch, exhaling his anxiety with the movement, and then reaches to rap three times on the bucket’s head. It doesn’t even flinch.

“You all good in there, man?”

The voice is so muffled it’s barely decipherable. “th- yeah, you’re the one gotta be worried, i’m uhhh... manifestation of your subconscious guilts, uhh inner torment.” They blindly swat for his arm which earns another knock for good measure.

“Yeah? Damn, sounds like it sucks for me.” Gordon rests back on his heels, pausing his attack, his arms rest on his knees and for a moment he appraises the other with unbridled amusement.

Sure. Not particularly professional to just leave the guy to this terrible fate, definitely some breach of the janitorial code of honor or whatever, but this has probably been the first time he’s spoken with a co-worker beyond asking them to please maybe move their bag.

“So what’s the bucket represent, then?”

The bucket shakes its head. “oh that’s definitely, no, so crazy messed up - gonna be so frightened, can’t spoil it.”

“Uh huh? Some kinda like janitorial purgatory-hell…” Bucket-head nods along sagely, and another laugh is coaxed out of Gordon. “Yo-you sure you’re good in there, man?”

“wha? yeah, so good, you gotta just s-... hold on-”

Whatever instruction Gordon had expected to receive is tossed aside, as bucket-man suddenly shoves both hands up wrist deep into the recesses of said bucket, and proceeds to violently employ them as a wedge in a way that no limb, organic or otherwise, ought to be used. But before Gordon can give voice to that concern, the bucket simply pops off and clunks to the floor with a particularly un-hollow sounding thump.

Revealed is a haggard looking thirty(?) something who levels a look of absolute distaste at their newly dislodged headwear.

A quick, desperate, memory check doesn’t flag the guy up as anyone Gordon’s seen around his floors. Nor someone who’d particularly fit into the polished company aesthetic; with this scruffy dark hair, sallow skin, ruffled unremarkable office-like wear, and vicious dark circles under the eyes. No. The flicker of migraine potential sparks across Gordon's skull.

New intern, he’d firmly decide.

Intern launches forward and, still cross legged, renews their attack on the bucket, jamming in an arm far deeper than the dimensions of the container would suggest possible. Intern rummages for a moment and then proceeds to yank out a familiarly battered helmet.

Satisfied, the item is given a quick toss in their hands, before they languidly redirect their yellow eyed attention up to Gordon. God fucking damn it.

“haha figured you guys hid your lost n found somewhere sucks.”

Fuck that.

Gordon promptly heaves himself to his feet, takes two quick steps back out of the room and shuts the door in front him.

Fuck that.

He then turns a perfect 90degrees and proceeds to power walk back down the hallway.

Barely a moment passes before the sounds of a door swinging open and dogged footsteps echo up behind him.

“yo wait”

Fuck. That.

“haha hey”

Fuck that.

“man, huh. you’re for- real with this again? cold-”

Just before reaching his cart Gordon stops dead in his tracks, and almost immediately something collides with his back. The startled “guh” is all the opening he needs to turn and push up into ------’s space crowding him against the wall, forearm to throat. Behave.

“ha ha woah-” Behave.

The migraine is certainly beginning, Gordon notes, his teeth grit.

“You.” He hisses at that unreadable face. “What the fuck is this. What the fuck are you doing here. I won’t even get into how, to be quite fucking honest the less I know, about all this bullshit, the better. I’ve had. Enough. With the-”

“yo i work here.”

Eyes all but rolling back in his head, the words hit Gordon with the force of a truck - and then proceed to reverse back over his broken body for good measure.

“...No, you don’t.”

“yeah i do.”

“You don’t. They don't have... security guards here, there’s a receptionist-”

“uhhhh huh potaydo potahdo-”

It picks at something, this does, it always did, Gordon is very familiar with it. Like a scab on your knuckle that’s not quite ready to come loose. Stupid and easy to avoid; the absolute best course of action is to leave it well alone. Gordon knows this. Anyone knows this.

“It’s. Not, there’s no way-... this is an offic-...”

“Yeah, no-... no security here, s’why they needed a guy, s’why i’m here, worked here-”

Gordon’s weak protest of “you don’t” falls on stubbornly deaf ears.

“Worked here mmh nine years, toda-... t’morrow.”

Gordon retracts and steps back out of that space, feeling blindly back with one hand for that coffee he’d placed on his cart. “I’m going to go.” He states, unacknowledged.

Benrey lifts his chin following a decidedly wet sounding inhale of breath, “th- you know...” He somehow has the absolute gall to look condescending from where he’s still leaning against the wall. “i just gotta make sure no ones here stealin these... spreads sheets or stuff. the background checks here? for sure, _not_ comprehensive.” He winks.

A long moment passes, stretched out like a fruit by the foot in the hands of an ambitious seven year old.

“You work here?” Says Gordon, quietly, words almost lost under the buzz of the shitty office night lighting.

The persistent shithead flashes a thumbs up.

“Then you can tell management I quit this time.”

Coffee abandoned he turns on his heel, steps squeaking against the linoleum, and fuckin leaves.

\------------------------------------------------------ --- -- -

Gordon steps out into the sharp night air, god it’s what - he fumbles to check his phone - 10:37pm. Two minutes until a bus is due, that’s fine, he’ll make it. Especially if spurred on by the clearly audible second pair of footsteps echoing through the night behind him.

Alright, perhaps this janitor job hadn’t been his first reintroduction to the modern workplace.

Perhaps he had much preferred the comfy data entry position that he’d been gently eased into on the back of multiple recommendations.

A nice, stable, generic company. Spreadsheets. Two weeks of no weird shit.

Until they’d pulled some guy out of the air vents above Gordan’s cubicle.

His steps all but auto-path him to the familiar stop, barely even registering anything else he steps onto the bus, he swipes the thing he has to swipe, sits down by the window, and enjoys the few moments of stillness before the vehicle begins to move.

A heavy weight which pulls at the backrest of the chair beside him and a pair of arms languidly drape forward pulling with them a blurry sallow face into Gordon's peripheral.

“bro.”

Like a barnacle. The pre-incident kind, he mentally corrects.

“yoo... how long’s this gotta go for-” Gordon exhales through his nose. The blurry head tilts. “-you _asked_ if i’m good. i'm good.

“I meant the bucke-”

“Like, all water under the bridge or w/e, died and stuff, me. i’m the one who should be all cryman pissbaby whatever-”

As if yanked like a worm on a string, Gordon turns in his seat, brandishing an indignant finger under the glassy eyed fucker’s chin. He takes a moment, forcefully exhaling the volume from his voice into a hiss for the sake of the other worn down commuters who seem to be very politely ignoring this particular piece of public theatre.

“ _Why._ ” he spits, “Are you doing this. _Man_. If we’re good, and it’s _done_ why are you _continually_ _fucking_ with-”

“we’re hangin out bro, why you gotta be always pointin shit at me-”

“I'll kill you again.”

It’s Benrey’s turn to wheeze out a laugh at the unenthusiastic threat, a boisterously discordant sound that causes a grandmother sitting near the front to look up from her needlework in concern.

Benrey leans further over the back of the chair, the laughter still in his mouth as he pushes a little further into Gordon’s space. “yeah, and then what?” He looks so maliciously delighted that if they had been alone Gordon is quite sure he’d have taken a good shot at strangling the man back to death then and there.

But they're not. So instead he sinks back into his front-facing seat and resolutely fixes his gaze out the window. Which, as it turns out, is a poor idea as he’s treated to a particularly smug looking reflection imposed over the dark cityscape.  
He sighs, and runs a hand over his face with a little more force than necessary.

“Half expected you'd not have one.” Gordon mutters against his better judgement, and watches halfheartedly from the corner of his eye as the man in question turns his gaze from Gordon to himself. “‘-reflection.” He clarifies lamely.

Benrey snorts, but the sharp grin smooths and settles into an approximation of thoughtfulness as he looks past Gordon, and yellowed eyes meet yellowed eyes in the grime specked bus window.

There aren’t any follow up quips or disjointed insults, in fact the rest of Gordon’s journey is spent in a strange quiet that he certainly does not intend to waste. He fixes his attention off of the other, to his phone screen, and busies himself by scrolling through pages that he doesn’t read.

This, _all_ _this_ , should hardly be a surprise by now. In truth, across those three months, one week, and six days Gordon had tallied a total of four confirmed Benrey sightings.

He opens up the Notes app.

\- Halfway up a particularly rickety tree in the middle of the city's only dogpark.  
\- In the energy drink section of the second closest convenience store to Gordon’s apartment, mumbling some indecipherable bullshit about ultra fiesta flavor.  
\- The vent incident. Gods how long had he been in there.  
\- And now this.

It should probably be concerning, horrifying even, he considers. With regards to... the terms they’d parted on before. Fighting to the death in alien liminal space, and all. That strange dynamic of theirs didn’t seem to translate properly to a reality that didn’t hang on them committing continual acts of horrific violence with regularity.

Gordon surreptitiously tilts his head to squint at the still pondering Benrey for an indeterminate amount of time.

Until the bus pulls to a stop.

Benrey only seems to break from his reverie as Gordon makes to stand, apparently startled by the movement as Gordon passes without a word and heads up to the front.

“yo feetman!” There it is.  
“you forget somethin?”

Because he is an idiot Gordon stalls at the door and turns to see Benrey shift, his feet kicked up on his recently vacated seat, sipping on a very familiar disposable cup of coffee, which at the attention he raises in a mock toast.

“Fuck off Benrey.”

Gordon exits the vehicle.

**Author's Note:**

> I like their dynamic, and had to get it out of my system.


End file.
